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[26 Feb 2005|12:13pm] |
tangled mess of leftist rage no answers ever take form eating the inside of a thought that could not be born i wrote a letter to the god of right she responded with a cold strike against my head my shame bleeds into the desire to be bold i reek of a dryness and the ground is my lover but i want the sun to be my lover secretly i calculate the hours unsure if the hours are worthy confidents i will shit on the seed of something obliged the hanging thread is straining and crying belief in my cells is my only hope
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